


don’t know much (making up the rest)

by earnmysong



Category: Arrow (TV 2012) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/pseuds/earnmysong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I expect you to hold me to that. My willpower is probably going to falter far sooner than I want it to.”</i> // Amell and EBR are adorable idiots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don’t know much (making up the rest)

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: The people are real; the events not so much. *Past the point of no return, no backward glances* I blame [this](http://inkpenpencil.tumblr.com/post/74077218506/oliver-and-felicity-arrows-emily-bett) picture in conjunction with J’s tags for it on Tumblr. Please note: this is only friendship fic.

\----

Emily bursts onto the scene ten minutes before the interview’s supposed to start -- half an hour later than she’d planned on being – a tidal wave of blond hair, apologies, and nervous energy. 

“This is so unprofessional. I don’t even have a legitimate excuse for my failure as a human being,” she laments mournfully, slumping into the vacant seat next to Stephen. “I couldn’t decide what to wear, to a point where I basically tried on half my freaking wardrobe.” He turns toward her to offer some form of consolation, but the story of her eventful morning doesn’t end there. “I finally find something I don’t despise, right?” She gestures at her current ensemble. “This, by the way, is not it. Stupid me had to go and drown my adorable white Zac Posen in a triple-shot latte.” 

Setting her shoulders and fixing her gaze on the wall behind where the camera is being set up, she vows, “I’m never drinking coffee again.” Her eyebrows knit together in concern as the reality of her statement sinks in. “I expect you to hold me to that. My willpower is probably going to falter far sooner than I want it to.”

The first reporter of the day chooses that moment to walk in, appears ready to get down to business. As the production assistant is sound-checking the woman’s mic, Stephen leans across his armrest to kiss her cheek. “That dress is fantastic.”

\----

After the conversation winds down, the reporter thanks them for their time, wishes them the best of luck with the new season, directs them out the door and down the hall toward where the photographer is waiting to start their shoot.

They’re given firm instructions to ‘just be yourselves’ and ‘don’t think about the camera’. 

(Famous last words.) 

\----

The whole thing devolves into insanity gradually. 

The first few shots are run-of-the-mill publicity, arms around each other, the dazzling smiles of beautiful people who are enjoying where their career paths have landed them, in no danger of fading anytime soon.

To keep the next set interesting, Stephen suggests a staring contest. “Is there a prize if I win?” Emily asks, setting herself up a few feet from him.

“I’ll buy your ticket to that Betty Whoever movie you’ve been talking about incessantly.”

She gasps, clutches at her heart, can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out. “It’s _Veronica Mars_ , you uncultured goon.” There’s a beat before she reaches out to shake his hand. “You’re on.”

\----

Emily loses, but only because an object half-hidden in a back corner of the room catches her attention and, once she realizes what it is, she can’t help the smile that crosses her face.

“Wait, you’re just giving up?” he calls to her retreating form as she sprints to pick up the bow and felt-tipped arrow that a good samaritan has conveniently left lying around. 

(Whoever that person was most likely expected her to be able to handle herself with decorum, treat the items as decorative props only. The photographer is looking at her like she’s insane, a fact which she could care less about. She is excellent at making her own fun.)

“What could be more interesting than –” he stops short when she resumes her original place, takes her hands out from behind her back and hits him square in the chest using her newly-acquired fake weaponry. “That was extremely rude.” The deadpan delivery lasts all of a few seconds. “I need tools of pretend violence too.”

She points to the spot where she found her artillery. “Back there.”

He takes his time going through the collection, keeping his choices hidden from her. Right before he turns to come back, he secures a ridiculous red wool hat to his head.

“Put this on.” Across from her again, he hands over a black helmet that she recoils at the sight of. “You said you liked Star Wars.”

“This,” she grabs the accessory in question as he reveals a sword and something that resembles a scythe from his waistband, “is nowhere close to being Darth Vader. It’s more like a demonic duck.” Despite her protests, she still puts it on. The rest of her rant is muffled by plastic. “Plus, I’m essentially blind, so you have an unfair advantage.”

“I have complete faith in your abilities,” he laughs. She lets go of the arrow that’s fixed in her bow, takes off her helmet so she can see where it lands. Stephen is speechless in front of her, his small cache of aluminum arms lying at his feet, abandoned in favor of the preservation of necessary body parts. “Yeah. That was a little too close for comfort. Why don’t we call it a day?”

The photographer holds out her blazer to her, shakes his head in amusement and confusion as he watches the two of them leave.


End file.
